


After The Storm

by amyfortuna



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Angst, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-08
Updated: 2001-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter from a lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Storm

On a sheet of paper, these words appear as though by accident, fraught with pain, blurred by a tear or two. The hand that writes them shakes, sometimes pauses. The paper is of fine stock. The writing is ragged and messy.

 _"My skin aches when you are away from me. I long for you with a passion so deep that it delves into my very bones. A low sweet struggle wages in my body, curling about my navel down into the heart of what I am. In the quiet I picture your face, laughing, transported with love, and I close my eyes in delicious recall._

 _The first moment I saw you I knew that I would love you. You may have watched me, but through the dimness of the drug-haze of that time, you stand out in my memory as well, you in your long hair and dress. I did not dare so much as whisper it to myself then, but kept it hidden, sweetness burning through me as I watched you perform so very badly._

 _And as time crawled away, and the years went by, I thought of you, forever and always. When I thought you lost to me, you made it plain that my thoughts were the same as your own, and our love, for that was what I was calling it, even then, was not anything for the media to laugh at._

 _So we laughed at them, in our own way. And when I kissed you, were you startled? When I caught words from my memory and gave them to you, were you delighted?_

 _And now I've fucked it up. Forgive me."_

The hand takes the paper, folds it into three folds, creases it, and places it in an envelope. An address is scrawled on the front, a stamp added. The hand is just about to lay the envelope down, but at the last second, pulls it back.

"No." It is a quiet, agonized whisper.

A long moment of silence passes. A memory catches and lodges itself, harsh words said, a walking away, and tears.

"No." The whisper more firm.

The hand rips envelope and paper to shreds.


End file.
